


Office Hours Never End

by maybemalapert (laconicisms)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Exhibitionism, Light Bondage, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/maybemalapert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the first time that his hands have been tied. It's not even the second or the third, so by all means he should be more accustomed to it by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Office Hours Never End

Mycroft falls back into the chair as Greg sinks to his knees in front of him, leans forward, hand reaching for Mycroft's tie and pulling until Mycroft's head is level with his own.  
  
"I'm not a dog," Mycroft murmurs against his lips.  
  
"Good, because I wouldn't do this with my dog," Greg replies and presses their mouths together. It's not a kiss as such; it's a mutual breathing exercise, oxygen passing from Mycroft's lungs into Greg's and back, once, twice, thrice - until he's starting to feel light-headed.  
  
Greg draws back and tugs lightly on the tie. "Take it off." He lets go, reaches for the belt around Mycroft's waist instead, then waits, expectantly.  
  
Mycroft's fingers are steady as he loosens the Windsor knot, but he can't keep his breath from becoming just a little harsher, a little bit shorter, as Greg opens the belt buckle and pulls the belt through the loops at the --  _exact_  -- same speed that Mycroft uses to tug the tie lose.  
  
The belt hits the carpeted floor with a soft thump. "You're not attached to that tie, are you?"  
  
"Not in particular." He doesn't hold out his hands, curious to see how and where Greg will bind his wrists -- it must be this because Greg likes hearing him speak too much to use the tie as a gag -- and not wishing to influence him.  
  
Greg's hands on his are warm and gentle. He opens buttons, rolls up sleeves, thumb pressing down on the pulse point on Mycroft's right wrist. "Heart rate is slightly elevated," Mycroft says. If you can call a thirty to forty percent increase in speed 'slight'.  
  
Greg's lips twitch, but he doesn't call Mycroft on the lie, simply pulls and tugs until Mycroft's wrists are crossed and he can loop the tie around them, neither too tightly nor too loosely.  
  
It's not the first time that his hands have been tied. It's not even the second or the third, so by all means he should be more accustomed to it by now, but the thrill that shoots up his spine and makes his breath catch in his throat begs very much to differ. He could slip the knot easily with a little time, he could call for help if he needed, too; could push Greg away (and Greg would let himself be pushed), but despite all these excellent arguments his subconscious doesn't quite want to let him accept that a tiny bit of freedom, a tiny piece of  _control_  has been taken from him.  
  
He flexes his hands and wrists as if to test the knot, covering up the urge to fidget.  
  
Greg notices anyway because there is a good reason for why he is a DI and because Mycroft has let him see far more of himself than most of his employees ever will.  
  
Quite literally, in fact, and despite  _that_ , Greg seems incredibly fascinated with Mycroft's hands of all things -- which are on open display most of the time -- and specifically, his fingers. Greg uncurls the index finger of Mycroft's right hand and closes his mouth around it. He tongues at the pad. Drags his teeth over the skin, and Mycroft freezes because the only alternative is to shudder and writhe and he is not quite that far gone yet. Greg pulls off and the cool air brushes over his wet finger, a counterpoint to the heat of his neck, his cheeks, his whole body.  
  
The sound of the zipper startles him. He hadn't even noticed the button of his trousers being opened. He hesitates briefly over whether he should lift his hips now or if he should wait for Greg to tell him to (releasing more control), but the decision is made for him when Greg tugs at his trousers and lifts an eyebrow at him. He doesn't stop at the trousers, pulls down Mycroft's boxer shorts, too, until both are pooling around his ankles, stopped by Mycroft's shoes and the fact that he couldn't lift his feet while lifting his hips.  
  
Mycroft lowers himself again and the leather underneath his arse feels warm and smooth and wrong because Mycroft is sitting naked from the waist down on his office chair. He is on his lunch break and the door to his office is locked, but nevertheless he is still at work.  
  
"I'm at work." Mycroft isn't particularly fond of stating the obvious -- even in his own mind and even less so out loud, but there is something about this situation that, he realises, he hasn't quite worked out yet. Greg asking to meet him at the office -- more than implying what he means to happen -- isn't solely to satisfy a craving for office sex.  
  
"Yes," Greg says. "You're always working."  
  
Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. There's a glint in Greg's eyes, and the realisation of what he will says next blazes a path of heat down Mycroft's face and straight to his cock.  
  
"Don't you have any phone calls to make right now, in fact?"  
  
He does. He always has phone calls to make, people to instruct, diplomats to appease. Greg knows this, of course.  
  
Mycroft finds himself in the unique position to decide if he'd rather speak to one of his underlings while Greg sucks him off or if he prefers to talk to a diplomat. He refuses to consider anyone from the palace. He has limits. There is, however, no doubt that he  _will_  call someone.  
  
Mycroft closes his eyes, takes a breath and releases it slowly, going over the options and finally hitting on one. It's not like Liechtenstein has a lot of political influence and he's been putting off talking to the embassador anyway. The man is mind-numbingly stupid and boring.  
  
He opens his eyes, leans forwards and grabs the phone, holding it awkwardly with one hand while the other hovers uselessly in front of his face. He asks to be put through to Mr. Vogt and attempts to put a smile into his voice as he greets the man.  
  
Greg licks a trail up his cock.  
  
Mycroft's hips jerk and he bites down on his lip while Mr. Vogt stumbles headfirst into his own long litany of greetings that somehow also manage to show his lack of intellect. Mycroft didn't actually believe anyone in the diplomatic service could be that imbecilic.  
  
"Indeed," he says, only half listening because Greg's fingers are tugging on his balls and he's nuzzling into the short curly hair around them.  
  
Vogt continues talking. It's a blessing that the man can ramble on without ever feeling the need to make sure people are still paying attention to him because Mycroft certainly doesn't. What little attention isn't going to the feel of Greg's fingers on his balls, Greg's mouth around his cock, Greg's tongue and teeth licking and nibbling and teasing -- what little of it isn't going to Greg is spent on trying to keep the moans inside his mouth and the whimpers behind his lips. Mycroft doesn't even attempt to keep the hoarseness from his voice, makes apologies for it ("caught a bit of a cold; oh, I see, so did your dear old aunt, how dreadful"), and--  
  
\-- smashes the receiver back onto the phone as Greg takes him further in till the tip of his cock hits the back of Greg's throat.  
  
A moan escapes him, loud and unmistakable and his toes begin to curl as his cock pulses, and he shudders, and he comes.  
  
"That," he begins, stops, because he can't remember what he was trying to say. He finally settles on, "even my control isn't that good." Because that is true and might be what Greg would like to hear. (He makes a note to himself, to call back Vogt, make excuses.)  
  
Greg hums around his softening cock, pulls back, and lets it slip from his mouth. "Doesn't need to be."  
  
Mycroft blinks and thinks,  _ah_. Not when he's with Greg. Not when he  _isn't_  actually working and thus doesn't need to function, doesn't need to be in control. "I see," he whispers. Letting go  _then_  is perfectly fine. He needn't fear it.  
  
Greg gives his bound hands a squeeze and nods.

**Author's Note:**

> My sincerest apologies to Liechtenstein.


End file.
